


non parlo italiano

by orphan_account



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 20:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1442386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Italy puts the Rome in romance."<br/>Wherein Jean and Marco have pizza, a stupid argument, sex, and more pizza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	non parlo italiano

**Author's Note:**

> Shows up for Jean's birthday 2.5ish days late with ~~starbucks~~ smut.  
>  In other news, I don't know if I even like this but I spent time I should have been studying writing it, so I shall force it upon the world.

The whole thing started because of some stupid movie.

I always looked forward to Saturday night movies with Marco, Armin, and Eren but during exams they became the highlight of my week. Every week one of us would pick a movie and we’d head over to Eren’s to pig out on pizza and watch. It was always Eren’s place because he was the only one of us who still lived at home. That meant well stocked cupboards the rest of us could only dream of, perfect for a post-movie snack raid.

No one ever admitted it, but I think we all liked it best when Armin picked the movie. It was always some random thing that only he would even think of and it was always awesome.

That Saturday was no exception. Armin showed up with some old French film that I’d never heard of but was excited to watch. He popped in the DVD and we all grabbed a couple of slices of pizza and a beer before settling into our assigned seating. Yes, assigned. See, one night Marco and I had gotten a bit, uh, close. I’d picked the movie that week and it had turned out to be incredibly boring. No one could blame me for finding my boyfriend more interesting. No one except Eren apparently. The point was that after that night Marco and I were relegated to opposite sides of the couch, separated by an Armin-and-Eren-wall.

I’d complained about them getting to sit together, and Eren had said something about him being able to keep it in his pants until he and Armin were alone, _unlike some people_. Armin had given me an apologetic look but said nothing.

It was a pretty average movie night to start off with. There wasn’t much talking. Apart from occasional glances between Marco and me, we were all pretty absorbed in the film. It was when it was over that things took an interesting turn. It was like the hour and a half of silence had been too much for us and we needed to make up for all the not-talking that had been going on.

Sometimes the movies brought out our inner college students and we had debates about _what the film was trying to convey_ , and junk like that. Other times one of us, probably Eren, ranted about the stupidity of the characters. If there were enough attractive men in the cast, that’s what we’d talk about. This was one of those rant times.

“Why the hell would she marry him?” he demanded

I couldn’t help but laugh at how offended he seemed by it, like the character’s choice was a personal affront.

“He _was_ kind of cute,” Armin offered quietly.

“Plus he spoke French,” Marco chimed in.

Eren looked like he was going to punch something, and I hoped it wasn’t me.

“Everyone fucking spoke French, Marco! It was a fucking French movie!” His exasperation was possibly more entertaining than his rage.

Well, if we were going to keep Eren going, it was my turn.

“I think Marco’s got a point,” I said, and Eren rolled his eyes at that, “French _is_ the language of _love_.”

If _I_ couldn’t believe the cheesiness of what I’d just said Eren’s reaction was sure to be great. Only I didn’t really notice Eren’s reaction. I noticed Marco’s. He was shaking his head so vigorously that I began to worry about his neck.

“Nuh-uh. Italian,” he protested.

I didn’t want to start an argument with my boyfriend about _languages_ , but at the same time _he was so wrong._

“Where’s the most romantic place in the world?” I asked.

Armin responded with “Vancouver”, but I ignored that. He was not going to mess up my argument because he was still trying to convince Eren that they should spend the winter break in Vancouver.

“Paris!” I practically shouted, “And in Paris, they speak _French_.”

Marco shook his head again, and stared right at me. I swear I’d never seen him look so serious before, but he couldn’t keep the laughter from his voice when he said, “Italy puts the Rome in romance.”

There was the sound of three synchronised facepalms. Marco laughed louder, and I joined in. Sometimes I couldn’t believe I was in love with such a huge dork.

The argument seemed to be over, so we decided to let Eren continue his rant while we played some Mario Kart. Marco won every time except one. Eren consistently came in dead last because he was too busy waving his arms around and complaining about the movie to actually concentrate on the game.

It was nearly three and Marco had won ten races by the time we decided to leave. I went out to start my car and clear off the snow that had accumulated over the past few hours. When I came back in Armin, unsurprisingly, announced that he was staying the night, so it would be just Marco and I on the drive back to campus.

Marco grabbed his jacket and followed me outside, but not before I saw him and Eren exchange some weird look. Armin sighed and waved goodbye.

“See you Monday,” he called out as Marco pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

 

I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly good. I thought things were totally normal and fine. I thought that the French vs Italian debate of the previous night was done. I thought my boyfriend and I could go get some coffee, attempt to study, and actually end up cuddling instead. I was wrong on all counts.

I stretched my arms and rolled over to face Marco. His eyes were closed, but he had a little grin on his face that I had learned only appeared when he was pretending to be asleep.

“Morning,” I murmured into his hair before pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

He opened his eyes and locked them on mine before slowly and deliberately saying, “Buon giorno”.

“Uh, bonjour?” I ventured.

I hoped this wasn’t going to be an extended foray into speaking other languages, because my French was very limited. And as far as I knew, so was Marco’s Italian.

He laughed and gave me a quick peck on the cheek before sitting up and running a hand through his messy hair.

“Caffè?” he asked, gesturing to the door.

I didn’t care what language he was offering me coffee in, I was definitely not going to turn it down. I nodded and he slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt that might have been mine. I wasn’t nearly as quick with the whole getting out of bed and getting dressed thing. He was already at the door pulling his jacket on by the time I had disentangled myself from the blankets and set my feet on the floor.

“No,” Marco said, gesturing for me to stay there. I didn’t want to, but then again I also didn’t really feel like putting on pants. I crossed my arms and tried to look unimpressed rather than just tired.

“Fine,” I huffed. Coffee first, then I’d figure out what the hell was going on with Marco.

In the short time he was gone I actually did end up putting on pants. Not a shirt though. And I sure as hell didn’t actually get off the bed. Fuck that. Marco was back in about five minutes. One of the perks of living on campus was never being too far away from a coffee shop. Or a store that sold something that passed as coffee, which was apparently what was on the menu for that morning. He came back with two big orange cups from 7-Eleven, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed. Sure it had caffeine in it, but it also tasted like shit.

He handed me my drink and placed his on top of the alarm clock by the bed—surfaces clear of clutter were hard to come by in our room—before kicking off his shoes and flinging his jacket to the far corner of the room. He then grabbed his cup and joined me on the bed, nearly making me spill my coffee with all the bouncing around he was doing.

When I took a sip I decided maybe having it spilt wouldn’t have been all that bad. I think they were trying for vanilla. I’m not sure what it actually tasted like but it sure as hell wasn’t vanilla. I grimaced and Marco must have noticed because he turned a little red and said, “Mi dispiace.”

I wasn’t even sure it _was_ Italian that he was speaking, so the chances of me understanding what the hell he was saying were exactly none. He sounded apologetic though, so I assumed it meant something like “my apologies”. That’s what I chose to believe at least. It could have been something incredibly offensive for all I knew. 

There’s that thing about biting the hand that feeds you, and I’m not sure if it extends to questioning the guy who brings you coffee. That’s what I did.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

No beating about the bush from me. Having a boyfriend I could actually understand was essential in me enjoying my Sunday.

“Parlo Italiano.”

I narrowed my eyes. He pulled back from me a little, but offered nothing in the way of explanation.

“Why are you speaking Italian?” I tried again.

“Non son.” As he said it there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying to fight back the huge ass grin he tended to get when he was fucking around. He’s lucky he’s so fucking cute is all I’m saying.

I took another sip of my god-awful coffee.

“Is this about last night?” I asked, then as an afterthought that really should have occurred to me a lot sooner, “Did Eren put you up to this?”

He looked down, like the quilt on our bed had suddenly become incredibly interesting, and shrugged.

I was going to fucking kill Jaeger. What the fuck could he possibly gain from having Marco speak Italian? Besides annoying me, of course.

Well, I wasn’t getting anywhere with Marco, so I figured it was time to talk to the asshole responsible. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found him.

**Why the fuck is Marco speaking Italian?**

His reply was almost instantaneous, like he was just fucking waiting for me to text.

**How the hell should I know?**

**Eren I swear to fucking god what the fuck did you say to him**

That look the previous night. I should have known he’d suggested something stupid and Marco had gone along with it, because Marco was incredibly sweet and incredibly bad at saying no.

There was no reply for long enough that I figured glaring at my phone hoping for it to vibrate was a waste of time. I looked up at Marco who was sitting as far away from me as he could while remaining on the bed. He was gulping down his coffee and shooting nervous glances at me.

“You’re gonna keep this up, aren’t you?” I asked him, though I already knew the answer. Or, I knew the answer in English; I wasn’t sure how to say yes in Italian.

“Si.”

Right. That meant it was time to move on to Armin.

**What did Eren do?**

**???**

I had a hard time believing that he didn’t know exactly what was going on. Eren probably couldn’t keep quiet about how funny the whole thing was. Armin had definitely seen the texts I’d sent him. Still, I’d humour him.

**Why is Marco speaking Italian?**

**I can’t tell you. (sorry)**

**Why the hell not?**

I knew why. Armin was incredibly loyal. He’d stick by Eren no matter what, and that was sweet and all but right now it was just pissing me off. And I really didn’t need to be more pissed off.

**Stop texting Armin!!!!**

I was really confused for a few seconds, before I realised that the latest text had come from Eren and not Armin. It made a lot more sense that way. Armin wasn’t in the habit of referring to himself in the third person.

“Fuck this,” I decided. I tossed my phone onto one of the many piles of clothes that littered the floor and then set down the cup of coffee that I’d been ignoring. It was bound to be cold by then and there was no way I was subjecting myself to _that_. I slipped off the bed and to the corner of the room where both of our books were haphazardly piled up. Italian Marco be damned, I was going to have my day of trying to study and then cuddling. I picked up the history book that had remained untouched through the majority of the term and returned to the bed with it. Marco followed my lead, getting up and pulling out a beat up copy of _The Tempest_ and joining me on the bed.

The bed was really the only useable surface in the damn room, so we’d long since figured out the best way to do just about everything on it. We had two main study positions. If we actually needed to get work done I’d sit at the head of the bed with my back against the headboard and Marco would set up his stuff near the foot of the bed and rest his back against the wall. That seldom happened, though. Most of the time we’d sit side by side, getting progressively closer until we were practically on top of one another, at which point books and all pretences of studying were cast aside.

I settled myself near the head of the bed, legs crossed, leaning against the wall. Marco had the advantage of a light book that wouldn’t kill his arms if he held it up and wouldn’t give him a concussion if he dropped it on his head, and he took advantage of that. He stretched out along the length of the bed, resting his head on my lap. It wasn’t long before I began to absentmindedly run my fingers through his hair. He responded with the cutest little noises. I hadn’t really been that committed to history to begin with, so even that had me ready to abandon my studying.

I tried to keep reading, but my thoughts were all Marco and since he hadn’t been involved in the French Revolution that was a bit of a problem. I closed my book and set it down as far away from us as I could reach. Even I appreciated that the resale value was better for textbooks that hadn’t been flung across rooms. I motioned for Marco to lift his head and he complied. I slid my legs out from under him and stretched them out alongside his; positioning myself so our heads were even, his legs reaching just a bit farther than mine. Marco’s nose was still in his book, and that wasn’t going to do.

“You done reading?” I asked as I grabbed the spine of the book. I waited until he said, “si” before yanking it out of his hands and tossing it on top of my history book.

With his book safely out of the way Marco turned on his side so we were face to face, noses almost touching.

“Te amo,” he whispered before stretching his neck up a bit to place a kiss on the tip of my nose.

I was pretty sure I knew what _that_ meant. “I love you too, loser,” I replied.

He brought a hand up to my face and I leaned into his touch. We both kind of moved in and he captured my lips in a kiss. He tasted like shitty coffee and I probably did too, but I didn’t mind. He ran his tongue along my bottom lip and I automatically parted my lips. His hand had been resting on my hip, but I didn’t really pay much attention to it until he snaked it around and gave my ass a squeeze. I let out an unattractive yelp and I could feel his breathy laughter against my lips.

“Not cool,” I muttered, though it was hard to actually be angry when I was pressed up against him like that.

“Davvero?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

That was it, that was fucking it. I grabbed him by his shoulders and rolled us over so I was over top of him, straddling his hips. I ground my hips down and I could feel that I wasn’t the only one getting a bit worked up. I smirked.

“Is this what you want?” I hissed in his ear, “You want me to get so fucking horny because of your _stupid Italian_ that I can’t help myself?”

I moved my hips again and he whimpered. I swear to god, he was going to stick it out. He wasn’t going to say a damn thing in English no matter what I did.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try my best.

I licked around the shell of his ear and he shuddered.

“You like my tongue, don’t you?” He gave the tiniest nod. “You like it when I eat you out? I could just fuck you with my tongue until you were begging for my cock.”

I gave a particularly forceful roll of my hips, eliciting a gasped “si, si, si,” from Marco.

I’d established that he knew how to say yes, and quite enthusiastically at that, but that wasn’t what I was going for.

“Tell me what you want.”

In lieu of an answer he thrust his hips upward, seeking friction. No English, no sex, those were the unspoken rules. So, like the stubborn asshole I apparently am, I moved off of him. Marco’s eyes went wide.

“What is it Marco?” I asked, tilting my head to the side and pulling the most mocking expression I could.

“Jean…” he whined, and I could tell he wanted to say more, but he also wasn’t about to give in.

“Sorry babe. I can’t do anything if I don’t know what you want.”

The truth was, I really, really still wanted to be on top of him. But now that we’d started some strange argument I wasn’t about to _lose_. Jean Kirschtein does not lose. I scooted off the bed, picked up our recently discarded books, and returned them to their home in the corner. It wasn’t about organising; it was about my lack of willpower. Especially when I didn’t have an actual good reason for why I wasn’t currently fucking my boyfriend.

I placed the two books on top of the stack, hoping that it wouldn’t fall over. Or if it did, that I wasn’t there to have my toes crushed.

When I turned back toward the bed, I was surprised to find Marco right in front of me. He grabbed my wrists and pushed me up against the wall, careful to avoid the stack of books. He, too, must have feared for his toes.

“Mar-”

I was cut off by a kiss, sloppy and passionate and incredibly hot. Marco let go of my wrists and I moved my hands to rest on his shoulders, pulling him ever so slightly closer. He had his hands resting on the wall on either side of me, still effectively trapping me. He slotted his thigh between mine and I widened my stance a bit to accommodate him.

See, willpower, not my strong suit. Any trace of my previous resolve to get-Marco-to-speak-fucking-English-already vanished when he moved one of his hands from the wall to the waistband of my pants. He pushed my pants and boxers down just far enough to free my cock. He wasted no time in removing his pants as well.

I stifled a moan when Marco finally took me in his hand. He ran his thumb over the head, collecting the precome and slicking it down my length. That would have to do because the lube was in a drawer on the other side of the room and I had a feeling neither of us would be moving from where we were until we finished.

Marco wrapped a hand loosely around both of our cocks, starting to thrust slowly. We hadn’t done anything like that in a while, and I’d forgotten how fucking amazing it felt. It took us a while to get into a rhythm, but when we did holy fuck. I leaned forward a little, resting my forehead on Marco’s. My rhythm faltered a little as I felt myself getting closer to the edge. Marco kept thrusting against me and my vision went white and all I could say was “Shit, Marco,” as I came all over Marco’s hand.

Marco was still working his length, and once I caught my breath I swatted his hand aside and took over. I pressed my lips to his and pumped his cock quick and rough.

“Jean, ohoh, Jean,” he gasped as he came. At that point I registered that he hadn’t even taken off his shirt and now it was stained with come. It also hadn’t escaped my notice that he still hadn’t said anything in English.

“Marc-” I started, but I was cut off with a finger pressed to my lips.

“Italiano o Francese?” he asked.

Oh. My. God.

I sighed, “Italian. Italian is more romantic.”

“Oh, thank god,” Marco said, and I could have fucking punched him, “I need to text Eren.”

If I were to make a list of things I didn’t want to hear right after sex, “I need to text Eren” would be right at the top.

I didn’t justify that with a response. God knows I wanted to ask him “what the actual fuck?” but I didn’t. The look on my face apparently did though, because he ran the hand that wasn’t covered in come through his hair and sighed.

“Eren and I made a bet,” he explained.

“And?”

“He bet me thirty dollars I couldn’t get you to say Italian was more romantic.”

His face was bright red, and he looked so ashamed. It was easily one of the stupidest things I had ever heard, yet it was kind of cute that he would go to such lengths for some stupid bet. Dork.

I just started fucking laughing, and that seemed to put him at ease.

“Thirty dollars? Can we use it for pizza and coffee that doesn’t taste like shit?” I asked.

Marco nodded and went to grab his phone so he could text Eren and claim his winnings. I got my phone from where I’d tossed it earlier and sent a text to Eren too.

**fuck you jaeger**

**p.s thanks for the pizza**

 

 

 


End file.
